Of Blunt Pens and Stained Newspapers
by Mr. Ree and Mr. Meenor
Summary: What would you do if someone offered you a job to help a journalist to go undercover in the hidden world of crimes in gangs? Deny it, of course. Sadly, Lavi doesn't pick up on social cues, especially when money is involved... Allen-Lenalee-Lavi, AU.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Of Blunt Pens and Stained Newspapers

Author: Mr. Meenor (Editor: Mr. Ree, xXMerryGoRoundXx)

Rating: T (Language, Violence)

Genre: Action, Romance

Synopsis: Twenty-year-old, alcohol addict Lavi Bookman is measuring his life by whiskey bottles. Considered useless, his life takes a flip when he meets aspiring journalist Lenalee Lee, who is trying to write a story on an underground gang known as "The Exorcists." With nothing to his name, she offers him a deal he can't refuse. . . despite the fact that it might cost him his life. (AU)

I.

Lavi Bookman owned few things: the clothes on his back, the pen in his pocket, the notebook in the other pocket (worn, torn, abused from age), and a wrench he received as a birthday present, but from whom he could not remember. Everything else in the poorly lit, damp basement belonged to his supposed roommate, who never showed his face. The CD's left in the corner, the wrinkled bedsheets on the bed, the posters of bands, the backpack in the corner—those things belonged to Arystar Krory.

Apparently, staying in more hospitable environments suited Krory than staying in a cheap, rundown basement of an old apartment building.

The bowl of water holding leaked drops from pipes grew heavier in volume as whiskey bottles laid at his feet, empty and unwanted. He never liked the taste or whiskey, nor was he fond of drinking, but it took his depression away. At twenty, a high school drop-out, but certifiably a genius, he had nothing left to live for, nothing on his name, and nothing spectacular about him. He worked, when he did work, at a construction company. He had talent and a knack for knowing precise measurements and where things went, be it a pipe or a beam. However, he did not enjoy his job. He lacked enthusiasm.

He always lacked enthusiasm.

Hell, he lacked every emotion. Some classified him as a sociopath. Personally, he classified himself as just an uncaring person who's slightly jaded.

Another drop from the old pipes made him groan. The radio, also Krory's, buzzed the scores of the latest football games. The voice sounded dull, monotonous, and a little old as the scores emanated from the speakers in no apparent order. His brain memorized the scores immediately, despite his request for his mind to stop doing that. It never listened. He did not even care about football, but it beat the loud noise of the dripping water that drove him crazy earlier.

". . . Green Bay Packers, 35, Detroit Lions, 7 . . ." The radio crackled a little as Lavi swung an arm over his face to cover his one working eye. The other was lost a while ago in a construction accident. He reached for another bottle of alcohol, but was disappointed by the emptiness in his palm when he closed his hand around the neck of the imaginary bottle. He moved his arm to see nothing on the table, after all.

Wonderful.

He forced himself to rise off the leather couch, his feet touching the unwelcoming cement. He staggered, almost tripping, as he reached for his work boots. He needed to get something intoxicating before the night was over.

The phone rang, jumping him. No one ever called, period, except for his job. Sighing, he reached for the phone after walking into a bookcase, chock full of encyclopedias and dictionaries in foreign languages that fell on his bare feet. He did not feel much of the weight as he answered the phone, trying to make his voice sound less sluggish. "Hello?"

"_Junior, we need your help tomorrow for a large project. We're repaving the highway between Route 1A and Interstate 395."_ The voice belonged to his boss, Cross Marian. He sounded worse than Lavi did, and that was saying quite a bit. _"If you don't mind, come in early around, oh, say, eight in the morning and get the crew ready to go, alright? I'm probably going to be late. And, damn, kid, you sound like you just woke up. Don't you understand the term of an alarm clock?"_

"I know what that is," he said, "I own one. Did you say eight?"

"_Yes, and if you would pay closer attention, you would know that."_

"Mm." He fumbled with the straps of his boots, wishing he didn't get such a complicated pair. "And did you say Route C4 and Interstate... Interstate 7?"

"_My God, you're drunk out of your mind. Whatever. Just set your alarm to eight and get here. I'll brief you later."_

The phone clicked. Lavi held it for a few moments longer, expecting Cross to say something further, but nothing was said. He hung up the phone, shrugging to himself as he finally managed to get the straps on correctly. He put on his coat, a scarf, and a pair of black earmuffs before walking up the wooden, creaking stairs and out the front door.

Snow covered every square inch of the ground, the trees, and the river. No birds chirped, and even if they had he wouldn't have heard them. The park he lived next to, a small memorial with an engraved stone in the center, had no one in it. A gray squirrel sat upon the stone, watching the redheaded adult try to walk without stumbling again. Cars drove by in a hurried fashion. No one else walked the ice-covered sidewalk. The sky, milky and darkening with the setting sun, swirled above him in a flurry of resting snowflakes, sitting on the clouds, waiting for their cue to descend upon the earth.

He waited at the crosswalk, the lights not working in his favor, as he tried not to hiccup or stumble into the middle of the road. His bare hand pressed against the cold metal of the lamppost, trying to keep his balance steady. His hand slipped, too cold to stand the metal much longer, and someone grasped his shoulder before he fell in front of the path of a mach truck.

Mud and snow managed to splatter onto his jeans, much to his annoyance.

"Whoa! That was close. Are you alright?"

He glanced at the stranger. A female, no older than twenty, stared at him with piqued curiosity. Her head tilted as she let go of his shoulder. Her oversized coat, he noticed, hid a small build and covered half of her long skirt. She wore boots for a male and looked out of place in the world, but her eyes, her curious, bright eyes, fascinated him. She snapped her fingers in front of his face. "You're staring. I asked, are you alright? You seem dizzy for whatever reason, and your face is flushed." She inspected a little closer, inhaling before frowning. "You're drunk."

"What?"

She took off his earmuffs. "I said, you're drunk."

"Mm. Yeah, I guess." He reclaimed his earmuffs before walking across the street. He didn't have time to deal with some random girl and have random conversations in the middle of a random sidewalk. Snow started to fall as he remembered the directions to the closest bar, hoping maybe he could pass out there for the night. Walking home at midnight, especially in the snow, would not be his definition of fun.

Fun. Adjective. 1.) A disposition to find (or make) causes for amusement—

"Excuse me, sir, but I don't think it's safe for you to be wandering drunk like that."

This again? He stopped in front of the car garage/bus stop (which, directly across it, was another park known as Cricket Square), standing beneath the light of the lamppost that glinted his red hair with orange, fluorescent highlights. "Look, lady," he said, "I thank you for your concern an' all, but I think I'm just fine wandering around without you telling me what's safe and unsafe, y'know? If you want my gratitude, well, you're shit out of luck. I'm not in a thanking mood right now, y'know?"

The girl frowned. "I'm only saying this because I don't want to write about a stupid drunkard that never learned how to obey street signs getting run over by an eighteen wheeler."

"Sarcastic, aren't you?" He resumed walking, hoping the latched parasite would give up and leave him alone. He loved being alone.

Love. Verb. 1.) A strong, positive emotion of regard and affection.

Well, not exactly "loved", so to speak. He enjoyed being alone, but he didn't "love" it. The footsteps behind him, muffled by the packed snow, hurried a little to catch up with him. He knew then that this was the kind of girl who cared about everything and everyone. People like her got hurt the quickest, got used the easiest, and got lied to the most. He whirled around, scarf whirling with him, and grabbed her by the shoulders.

"Listen," he said, "I'm not sure if I made myself clear, but you seriously need to stop following me."

"I'm not." She folded her arms across her chest, annoyed. "I'm just trying to get home, thank you. Stop being such a narcissist."

She pushed his hands away and scurried through the dark and the streetlights. He stared at his own hands for a moment, puzzled, then shrugged as he walked towards the tavern waiting before him, with its doors opened wide in a warm welcome despite the bitter, winter temperatures outside. It's rare for him to be wrong about something, but there was a first for everything. He walked through the door and glanced through the buzzing tables of the bar. It was filled with its regulars again, including himself.

"Oi, Lavi. Mind closing the door, will you?"

He closed the door and walked down the ramp before taking a seat at the counter. The bartender looked at him for a moment, drying a pint-size glass with a white towel. Behind him, a television flickered a football game. Most of the men stared at it as Lavi fixated his eyes on the scrubbed, polished wood of the counter. The bartender once told him it was made from maple. Observing it closely, he could tell that it was made of oak, not maple.

"Somethin' on your mind, boy?"

He hated it when people called him "boy." He shook his head. "No. I just got work tomorrow."

"Ah, yes. Tedious, work is." The bartender placed the glass in front of him, sliding it across the table to Lavi. "What will it be tonight? Same old?"

"Same old."

"Comin' right up."

A wave of groans and "Oh, damn it all!"'s rushed through the crowd. Lavi felt his consciousness slip away from him ever-so-slowly, edging its way to the brink of sleep. He forced his eye open as his drink appeared before him, bubbling and staring back. His fingers brushed against the cool glass before taking a sip. Then, without further concern for his well-being, he chugged the whole glass.

He woke up the next morning somewhere unfamiliar and a throbbing headache.

White plaster walls greeted him as bed covers draped over his body, presumably naked. Breathing beside him told him he wasn't alone. Adjusting to the morning light pouring through the bare glass of the window, he noticed his clothes scattered on the trash-covered floor. The room itself was small, with a closet and a desk. No bookcases reached his line of vision. He targeted—or got targeted—by another hopeless girl who couldn't do anything but have sex with every male she knew.

Carefully, he moved the blankets off him as he gathered up his clothes, putting them on before trying to find his boots. In the midst of his search, he caught a glimpse of the time off the alarm clock in the corner of the room—7:23.

"Shit!" he whispered, finding his boots and strapping them on. The headache worsened as he jotted down a note with a fake name scribbled at the bottom, along with a fake number, before rushing down the stairs—just where in the hell was he? He paused, trying to familiarize himself with his surroundings before realizing he was still in the downtown district. The bus left towards his job in less than two minutes. He decided to sprint.

Buildings of local shops blurred by. People, too, and their faces. He realized one moment that his shirt was inside-out. It got replaced the next second by the sight of the bus rolling away from the bus station, driving down the road and riding towards Main Street. His footing slipped on a patch of ice, colliding his forehead to the bricks of the sidewalk. He moaned, head throbbing more, as he sat up. The bus was gone.

"Damn," he said. "All that effort just to get a worse headache."

His eye wandered over to Cricket Square, more commonly referred to as just "The Square." The trees surrounding the edges of the park had strings of lights wrapping the branches in celebration of the upcoming holidays. The center of the Square converted into a ice-skating rink, something that the city did for the sake of activities. A few people skated around (a little child used her pink boots as a set of blades) as he dug out his cellphone, knowing he was undoubtedly going to get hell for missing the bus.

The phone rang twice.

"_Hello?"_

"Hey, Cross." He rubbed his forehead, trying to ignore the glare reflecting off the man-made ice. "I kind of missed my ride in to work. Is it alright if I show up a little la—"

"_Again? You missed your ride _again_?_ _Fuck, Junior, I thought you were better than that! What is this, your twelfth fucking time that you've done this?"_

"Eighth, actually. Two were legitimate excuses."

One of which, he recalled, was because he was in the hospital for his eye injury. The other, he remembered, was the death of his grandfather, Bookman. Died of a cardiac arrest. He assumed it was because of all the cigarettes he went through in the course of one day.

"_And the other six?"_

"My own shortcomings. Look, if I can get a ride in—"

"_Don't bother. You're not needed here."_

A pause. "You're firing me?"

"_Correcto-mondo, retard. Find an employer who's willing to put up with your antics."_

The phone clicked. He stared absentmindedly at the glare of the ice before hanging up himself. Sighing, he wanted to trip again and knock himself out permanently. However, he did not believe in committing suicide, so he ruled out that option. He buttoned another button of his jacket, feeling the windchill wrack through the ice-encrusted branches, and walked towards Cricket Square. It wasn't as if he had anything else to do. He was officially unemployed.

And since the economy was in such a horrid state, the chances of him finding a job again was slim to none.

How was he going to pay the rent now?

Laughter of children interrupted his thoughts as he sat down on one of the benches, staring with no intention in mind. Sometimes, he just liked to stare about, finding new and interesting things to catch his attention. Today, however, it seemed nothing caught his eye, so he gave up and pulled out his worn-out notebook and his blunt pen. The tip, rusting from use, never broke, and since he had no money, he kept using it. He had the pen for six years now. It was one of the two last gifts he received from Bookman, who was a Scrooge. Speaking of holidays, he had yet to get a present for Krory.

He groaned. He didn't want to think about Christmas now. Instead, he flipped through the few remaining pages and started to write. He never had any worthwhile notes, but it got the job done. Sometimes he wrote poetry; other times, he wrote down odd observations ("Heard a boy shout 'I love indigo oranges!' I'm pretty sure he was high or tripping on acid, but he had a nice fedora"). Once in a long while he wrote down a personal rant, which usually involved the incompetence of the human race.

He can't be bothered to actually do something about it, however.

He never can.

More skaters spun in gliding circles on the ice, a few people falling and laughing. He observed a peculiar couple dance to a song that only they could hear. He tried to do something like that once. Fall in love, dance with someone, try to care, try to smile. It didn't work. He got slapped that evening, way back in high school before he got his G.E.D..

He found himself staring at someone else who entered the winter wonderland. He couldn't put his finger on it, but he knew he saw the girl from somewhere. He watched as she sat at an unoccupied bench, flipping through the pages of a newspaper. Beside her, a cup of coffee (still hot, judging by the steam) sat motionless as she turned page after page, looking disappointed. He then found himself gravitating towards her, as in getting off his lazy ass and walking across the square. Absentmindedly, he wandered onto a patch of the makeshift ice rink and slipped, the back of his head connecting with the frozen molecules of water.

The girl looked up and laughed.

He grimaced as he stood up, trying to find a decent balance, before attempting to conquer the ice yet again. His arms flailing, he fell again, grimacing. People stared at him as he tried once more, this time making sure his feet felt comfortable. Inhaling deeply, he forced one foot in front of the other, making it to the edge of the rink. The girl applauded. "Bravo! You managed to get a one out of a ten for determination. That's what counts, right?"

He rolled his eye before looking her up and down. "I'm sorry," he said, "but you look so familiar I can't seem to shake it off. Did we meet?"

"Hah, yeah." She closed her newspaper and moved the cup of coffee. "Have a seat. Surprised I didn't have to write that story about a bumbling drunk, after all."

"What?"

"Oh, you probably don't remember. Long of the short, you met a mach truck, but I cut the meeting short. Get my drift?" She took a sip of her coffee, staring out into the filled vacant space. Her eyes, a dark shade of brown with tints of—well, what looked to be purple—wandered until they landed back onto him. "You stick out like a sore thumb. Is that hair natural?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah."

"You look festive for the season."

"I get that a lot."

She held out a hand. "My name is Lenalee Lee, a journalist for a... well, a popular newspaper. What's your name?"

"Uhm." He looked at her hand, then back to the girl named Lenalee, then at her hand again. He didn't quite comprehend basic gestures like hugging and shaking hands. He tried them once, like trying to care, but it didn't work. Her hand dropped after the elongated pause and awaited his answer, but he didn't say anything about himself. Instead, he said, "A week from today is Christmas."

"Hm? Oh, yeah." She took another sip. "I finished my shopping yesterday. I got my older brother this really nice coffee cup. He works for this large science lab. I was going to go into science, but I ultimately decided against it and became a journalist. Luckily enough, I got hired right away—a journalist for my newspaper retired. It's funny how life works, you know? Oh!" She rummaged through her bag, pulling out some important-looking documents. "That reminds me. Do you happen to know anything about the local gang entitled 'The Exorcists'?"

He was not sure what to make of this Lenalee Lee. She seemed nice. She liked to chat with strangers, sometimes easily distracted, yet kind at heart. Her eyes alone told him that much. Her curious, perceiving eyes. He saw those eyes once before in Bookman, but they had unbiased judgments about everything. She seemed biased in some things. He doubted she was a great journalist, but nonetheless, he supposed he was happy for her. The pen in her hand clicked.

"You don't talk to people much, do you?"

"What?"

"I said, you don't socialize."

"Don't see a point in it. I prefer reading. And sleeping." He yawned. "Wait, what did you ask me again?"

"The Exorcists?"

"The who—?" He stopped. "Oh, you mean that group accused of most of the graffiti around here? I have heard of them. Never seen one, though, or at least paid attention to notice them."

"Oh." She clicked her pen and put it back into her bag. "You see, I'm doing a large story about the hidden crime in this neighborhood. I've got some tips from some good people, but that's about it, and this assignment is due in about six months." She nodded when he raised an eyebrow. "My boss thinks there is something else in the streets, something dangerous, so he gave me six months to uncover it. I'm no expert, but I feel it, too."

"Oh."

His headache began to leave, giving him a respite. His eye closed as he sighed, feeling tired. Whatever he did the previous night, he doubted sleeping for eight hours was beaming on the list. The girl named Lenalee cracked her knuckles, which hurt to hear, let alone feel. She finished her cup of coffee and tossed it into the trash can near the two. "But, really," she said. "What _is _your name?"

"Lavi. Lavi Bookman. Unemployed," he added to play off her own introduction. "Unemployed as of this morning."

"Really? I'm sorry to hear that."

"If you were truly sorry, you'd get me a job." He laughed unpleasantly as he rose from his seat, his bare fingers starting to freeze. "But whatever. It was nice to meet you—"

"I have a job for you."

"—you—what?" He turned around to see the girl named Lenalee get up as well, brushing the imaginary dirt off her long skirt.

"I said, I have a job for you." She handed him a card. "That's my number. The job itself is to help me find this Exorcist gang. Then, when we do, we need to go undercover to find out as much as possible about them. Their way of life, the way they talk, their mannerisms—everything. If you do, I'll give you half of my paycheck for this story. Deal?"

He waged the risks in his head. Finding information of the Exorcist gang was simple. All they had to do was ask around, ask local drug dealers, ask homeless people—basically, people who knew the streets and their secrets. But the actual being a part of a gang? The average lifespan of people who are involved in gangs live until about twenty-three, at best. Causes of death involved gunshots, poison, group attacks against chain links, dismemberment, vivisection (being dissected alive), and many, many other ways he could list but didn't want to.

Especially for a girl. Girls had so much worse to live with if they wound up in a gang. They were "jail-bait." And yet she still seemed all for it. He, on the other hand, would just wind up dead if they found out they were undercover and reporting on them, possibly trying to get them in jail. His fingers twitched by his side. "I don't know. How much are we talking here?"

"I'll get about one hundred thousand dollars for this. I'll give you fifty percent."

"One hundred..."

"Yes. One hundred thousand dollars. Now, are you in or not?"

He weighed the options. "I suppose so. I've got nothing else to do."

"Great." She smiled at him. Her teeth sparkled in the sun. He doubted she had cavities. "See you tomorrow, then? We'll talk more about our plans later, okay?"

"Yeah. Tomorrow."

"Cool. See you later, Lavi!"

"Yeah. Later."

She dashed off out of the park, hurrying to wherever her next destination was. He started to walk home, wondering vaguely what the hell he got himself into.

Well, he considered, at least it wasn't as boring as construction work.

I

End of first chapter. Leave a review, if you wish. Reviews are a sign of love, you know, only in literary form. What? Don't look at me like that. I'm not a psycho. Honest.


	2. Chapter 2

I based the background information of downtown Bangor, Maine, because that is where this story takes place—somewhere where no one expects to have anything bad in it. It's a challenge, since I don't live in Maine, but Mr. Ree does, and I visit her sometimes. Anything else that happens here is fiction, though, as you should already know. Thank you for the reviews you all gave me. I will try my best to write this story as well as possible.

II

2.

He got his first fake ID when he was nineteen.

"Lavi Bookman Age 22 DOB 10 Aug. 1989 Ht. 5'9" Wt. 145 lbs."

For starters, his first name, clearly, wasn't "Lavi." He didn't have a last name. The age was fake. The birthday, though correct, was the wrong year, and his height was a guess, like his weight. When he graduated, his name was Deke. Deke something, he couldn't recall the last name he used. He moved around a lot with his grandfather after his mother died. He learned from Bookman that he never had a name, or rather, a legal name, nor a social security number. His mother never did that much for him.

To the rest of the world, he didn't exist. Only Lavi.

Only the alcoholic.

Only the crazy.

Only the waste of space.

II

_Cut it out, make a paper doll, find the time to sing a song as you dip in in the shards of your Ma's bottle of whiskey, where she once hid the Vikoden. Don't make a sound._

_Shut up. Walk quietly. Make pictures on the wall, cry for help. Shut up. It's not working anymore. Nothing's working anymore. She's not moving. She's not speaking. Why? Where is everybody? Where is your courage? Pick up the phone, it's dead, it's dead! She's not moving, is she_

_La_

_Vi?_

II

Krory, surprisingly, returned to the basement that evening, with fine-tailored clothes and a brand new wristwatch. He arrived with his heartfelt smile, bag hanging by his side with flower heads popping out of the zipper. Lavi didn't even look up as the man descended the stairs and picked up the brimming bucket of dripping water, dumping it into the rusting sink full of dirty dishes. The bag sat in the corner as the man pushed the pillow off of the redhead's face. "Are you alive, or should I call an ambulance?"

He groaned.

His roommate placed the plants in several places—a few in the corner, one on the small table—before putting the bucket back under its respectful place. The pipe released another drip of water. "We really ought to get that fixed," he commented, picking up the phone. "I recently got a promotion, just so you know. We can probably afford a plumber."

"Wonderful."

Krory frowned, a rare occasion. He put the phone down before forcing Lavi's mouth open and sniffing a little. "You've been drinking again," he said. "I thought you said you were going to stop that. I really hate liars, you know." He swiped the empty bottle off the table and put it in the recycling bin before rummaging for food. "When was the last time you actually had a decent meal, Lavi? And, look! You haven't even paid the rent this month! What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking I'm kind of unemployed," he replied.

No response, only a clutter and clang of dishes. Then water gushing. His eye opened a little to see his roommate rolling up his sleeves and attacking the dishes with warm water and dish soap. A bubble escaped and floated up to the low ceiling, popping when it reached one of the beams. The window, placed high enough to see the ground outside, showed that night settled in over the small town. He never liked windows. They distracted him from his thoughts, and sometimes, he had something worthwhile to think about.

Something itched in his pocket, something burning and tempting him to reach for it. His arm, draping lazily over the arm of the couch, only quivered in denial when Lavi tried to move. His frown deepened before opening and closing his hand, making sure it wasn't asleep, then managed to drag it to his pocket. A small, 1 x 3 card with size eight font attracted his attention. He couldn't read it—his eyesight blurred when he tried to focus on the letters, or were they numbers? "Hey, Krory," he said, slurred, "could you come read this for me? I would do it myself, but I kinda can't."

"Just a sec..." Another clank. Krory strode over to him and took the card out of his hand. "Hm. Lenalee Lee? Is this a girl's number?"

Lavi waited for the name to register, going through file after file of memories. Was it today? Yesterday? A month ago? When did he get that card? Wait. He took the card back out of Krory's hand and stared at it, trying to get the images and words or numbers to focus. "Lenalee... Lee," he repeated, then gasped. "Wait a second, it's that girl I met this morning! She offered me a job or somethin'! What the hell was it? For the love of God, Lavi, fucking think straight!"

"I thought you just said you were unemployed?"

He grabbed the phone. "I did. I am, or was, or something. Yeah, now I remember, Cross fired me 'cause I slept in or something. And then I met this girl, who apparently I met last night, and she said something about a job... what was she again... a reporter? No, no, damn it all, I can't remember! Hey, could you relay this number to me? I can't read it."

"You sure you want to call this girl while you're drunk?"

"Why not?"

Krory sighed. "Fine. The number is..."

II

Lenalee Lee, age 20, still in college, yet offered a job to one of the biggest news magazines in America.

She didn't know how it happened.

People often told her that her writing was blessed. Blessed with what, though? She never quite saw it, only the words that spilled onto her computer. It just came naturally to her. Couldn't people understand that much? Couldn't people write like that on a regular basis? Apparently not.

She sat before her Macbook Air, a nifty computer that had a large touch screen and wonderful graphics. Whenever she had the chance, she seized the opportunity to play video games. Often, she turned to Maple Story, or World of Warcraft, or something else. Her Internet friends outnumbered the amount of friends she had in real life. Which was fine, she only needed a few real ones. Her fingers danced over the keyboard, the little tap-tap-tapping noises filling in the otherwise empty silence that smothered the room. The radio in the background played music from foreign countries—China, especially, but only because she was Chinese.

The day her boss offered her the job, she thought he was kidding.

"_A story in Maine? What's going on there? That's the most boring place on the planet, I heard."_

_He nodded. "I know it sounds far-fetched, but... It's about this gang called 'The Exorcists' rooted in Maine. They seem harmless, but recent intelligence says there is a whole war underground. So, if you are willing, I want you to go undercover and find anything that pertains to this war. I want you to find the Exorcists and join them. If you do so, I will give you six months to work on this story. And I'll pay you one hundred thousand dollars."_

_Her eyes widened. "One hundred..."_

_Her boss nodded. "Yes. Are you up for it, Lenalee Lee? This could be your biggest break."_

Of course, at the time, she said "yes." Now, however, she was unsure. As she sat before the window in her hotel room, overlooking the pine trees and snow-clad streets, she didn't know whether she had the nerve to finish it, after all. The boy she met yesterday, though. He seemed like an unreliable, conceited jerk who took everything for granted. But he intrigued her, despite the unattractive habit of his drinking. She wondered briefly if he would call before returning to her typing, a flurry of words covering the white document that hid her background picture.

The picture was her and her brother, Komui. She missed him dearly. When she returned home, she would give him the biggest hug ever.

The cellphone on the windowsill vibrated.

Shocked out of the silence, she nearly dropped her laptop. She sighed in relief as she put it aside, grabbing the cellphone—an unknown number?—and answering it. "Hello, this is Lenalee Lee. Who may I ask is calling?"

"_Lenalee, hi, uh, it's Lavi."_

She leaned back in her chair. "You sound drunk. What's up?"

"_I'm trying to remember what you offered me, but my memory is kinda fuzzy right now..."_

"It's called a 'job.' People have them." She heard his small laugh, which made her crack a small smile. "I offered you fifty thousand dollars to go undercover with me. I was working out the details, actually, and I have some intellect on where they might be. We have to work out our own personal stories, though, in order to join. From what I gathered, most to all the members are homeless, out of work or were abused when they were younger. Perhaps, even, all three for some. I was hoping to meet you around noon, considering, it seems, how much you like to sleep."

"_How considerate of you."_

She grinned. "Yes, well. Are you up for it?"

"_More like half-asleep, but yeah, sure, why not."_

"Great. We can meet at that bagel place I've been dying to go to. Does that sound good?"

"_The one downtown? I've been there, it's good."_

"Great. See you then."

She hung up, putting the cellphone aside and placing the computer back on her lap. She cracked her knuckles (which cracked too much, making her cringe) and resumed her typing. She paused, saved her document, and rummaged through her bag for food. She nearly forgot it was dinnertime.

II

He crashed after talking to her in his cardboard box bed. Krory questioned why he slept in a cardboard box, and the answer, he told him, was because he liked cramped spaces. He always liked cramped spaces. It calmed him and made him relax. No one really understood that, but he didn't care. His definitions of comfort didn't depend on other people's standards. Other people didn't like his tiny room, either.

He roused the next morning, restfulness accompanied by a familiar headache. He uncurled as much as the cardboard box allowed him to, happy that the warm blankets didn't escape. His mother used to tell him a story about a blanket monster that ate gingers on a regular basis and escaped before anyone could catch it. He frowned at the thought. He hadn't really thought of his mother in a long time. Whenever people asked him about his parents, he said he didn't have any. And, in part, that was true. By the time he turned five, his mother wasn't in the picture anymore.

His personal blanket monster slept on top of him, hiding any forms of light from his eye. Childish, yes, he was childish, but he was allowed once in a while. The pillow aided him in his quest to stay in bed, practically smothering his head with the added weight of the blankets. Something in the back of his head told him to wake up, wake up, it's not Christmas but you've still got stuff to do. He told it to shut up. It was bad enough he had one alarm clock; he didn't need another in his head.

The blanket monster moved, thanks to Krory, who stood over him with a flashlight. Lavi wanted to punch him in the nose. But the temptation passed when he said,

"Aren't you supposed to meet that girl?"

The very phrase caused his brain to go into hyper-drive. "Shit! What time is it?"

"11:30."

"Goddamn it!"

He crawled out of the box and tried to find something clean amongst his clothes, which Krory helped by washing the clothes the previous night. He picked a black shirt—he never wore black, but hey, first time for everything—and some old jeans, mismatched socks, and almost put on the wrong shoes but caught himself. He put them on, tied his bandana to his head, made sure his eye patch was still there, grabbed his coat, put on his scarf, and hurried out the door.

The rays of the sun reflected the bright white snow forts and snowmen. A snowball hit him on the side of the head. He ignored it and briskly walked towards the bagel shop. He remembered, once upon a time, Krory taking him there after he threw up his guts from drinking too much. His stomach craved for food that day. The owner, a woman in her—thirties? Forties? She was a nice woman and talkative. The bagels were spectacular.

Winding around Cricket Square, he arrived to the small park with a fountain in the center. Two, three food shops—one Irish, another a pub, and the last one, he didn't know—lined the store front. Further down the street resided a children museum, and across from that was an antique's store that doubled as a cafe. The theater was further up the road. In front of him, an Italian-style food place took the corner space, people already in it. Beside it, a random trinket store filled with oddities boomed business. That street, he recalled, was named Central Street.

And, on Central Street, rested the infamous bagel shop.

He walked the crosswalk and past the Italian shop, the smaller cafe, the bakeshop, the comic book store, until finally he reached the bagel shop. He glanced through one of the large windows to see Lenalee sitting there, food on a small plate. She seemed to be waiting for him, what with her finger tapping upon the wooden table. He walked through the door and approached her table, which resided in the corner under a painting from a local artist. She looked up from her food and smiled.

"Hey, you made it with two minutes to spare."

"Sorry." He took a seat across from her. "Nearly slept in."

"You called me at nine in the evening. How could you possibly sleep for that long?"

"Magic."

She chuckled as she took a sip from the paper cup in front of her, putting it back down afterward beside her bagel. He noticed the sesame seeds that escaped on the plate. He never liked sesame. He preferred the onion bagels. "This place really is good," she commented. "I looked at their hours. I'm pretty sure they're the only store closed on Saturday."

"The owner is Jewish," he informed, sneaking a bit of her bagel and chewing it, trying to ignore the taste of the seeds. "She takes the day off as a holy day."

"Oh, that makes sense. I could get you a bagel if you want. Stop sneaking off with my food."

He grinned. "Sorry."

She rolled her eyes. "What kind do you want? You look like either the plain-type or something basic like that. Do you like cream cheese?"

"Onion, and yes, please."

She got up and approached the counter as he stared at the picture hanging above the table. A full moon, an apparition, trees looming in the background, the jester hat, dark blue and white, on the apparition's head, nothing more than that. It gave him the shudders while she came back, putting down a bagel in front of him. "Here," she said. "Onion, as his Highness wishes. Anyways, I have some hits on where they like to hang out."

He watched as she pulled out a folder and flipped through its contents. A paper cut on her forefinger caught his attention. The small details always grasped his attention, for whatever the reason. Perhaps they were always overlooked, like he was when it mattered. She placed a piece of paper in front of him, blank like his thoughts, and a pencil. He raised an eyebrow as she motioned towards them. "Whenever I say to, write what I say, okay? It's time to brainstorm!"

"But it's only five past noon. Can't we save the thinking until after eight in the evening?"

She shook her head. "Not today, Mister Grinch. Alright, so, when we find them, like I said yesterday, we need background stories. You seem smart enough. I've been trying to think of stuff to put down, but you know, I have multiple jobs and what not. So, can you think of anything off the top of your head?"

He stared at the paper, then looked at her. "This paper is wide ruled."

"Yeah. So?"

"I only write on college ruled."

A pause. She looked at him, disbelieving, before caving in and getting another piece of paper. "Here. Happy?" She frowned as she handed it to him. "Anyways! Got anything?"

He tapped the pencil repeatedly on the table, spacing out. "Hunh? Oh, yeah. Well, you said the persons in the gang were homeless, out of work, or abused. So, how about we get a little creative and make at least one of us crazy. I don't know how, though. I would totally be all for acting crazy. That's enough reason for a parent to hate their child, right? They get run down from all the emotional tear of it all, then toss the child out. Works, right?"

He looked up again to see Lenalee blinking. Not just one, defiant, "what the hell are you on?" kind of blink, but three. "Uh, I guess. But wouldn't it be hard to manage that personality forever?"

_Not when you've lived most of it._ He nodded. "I suppose, but I'm a pretty good actor." _And it will make it easier for me, because I'm acting right now. _"So how 'bout you? What're we going to do about you? Girls are supposed to be more complex than boys."

"Well..." She tapped her forefinger on her chin, pondering. "I could just be homeless and looking for an actual friend or something. Does that work?"

He scribbled it down under the column he labeled "Lenalee's Story," trying to make his handwriting neat so she could read it later. "Alright, but why did your parents throw you out?"

"...My mother has a new boyfriend," she replied. "She doesn't want me in the way, because I'm a mistake from a previous relationship. I'm just making things worse for her. So, to hide her mistake away from this attractive guy, she tosses me out. I'm allowed to come home only on Thursday, when she's away from home to visit him down south in Portland. Since then, I've had lots of horrible relationships and tried drugs once or twice."

His writing grew sloppy in an attempt to catch all the small details. "You must have taken a creative writing course in school to learn to make three-dimensional characters. I suppose that could do it, but will they buy it? I mean, do they just let new members in, or what? There has to be a trial of some sort, there has to be."

"We'll just find out when we get there, won't we?" She gave him a faint smile, inhaling slowly. Her nervousness set him on edge. He never liked it when someone got nervous. He got nervous when someone else became nervous. His grip on the pencil tightened as she continued. "The thing is, we have to be prepared to get into fights, get into trouble, and maybe, sometimes, live nowhere. It's risky. However, I made sure our names turned up in the police database, should anything happen, saying that we are undercover."

He put the pencil down and stretched. "So that's it, then?"

"Pretty much."

She rose from the table, picking up the two plates and putting them on top of the trash cans where all the other dishes were. He followed her outside into the sunshine, the slush. "We are to meet outside here at eight," she said. "We're going to go and find where I think they are. I've been asking around. I might ask more around the homeless shelter for teens to get confirmation or more clues. You should probably get a change of clothes and get ready for a long six months."

"Does this mean I should cancel my subscription to 'you're an idiot' magazine? 'Cause I'd be all for that."

She grinned. "Make sure when you're in character that you keep that wit of yours. Go on—I'll see you tonight."

"Yeah. Tonight."

She walked the other way as he walked back the way he came from, glaring at the midday sun. The sun had no right to be so bright. In America, he could probably sue the stupid thing, but he didn't like the judicial system. He always had issues with the term "justice" in America. He knew it was a personal problem. Sighing, kicking snow up with his boots, he arrived back in his rundown basement where Krory continued to try to pick up the trash.

Lavi cracked a grin when he saw his roommate, feeling relieved when he said,

"I'm leaving."

II

_Hush, hush, my little boy / everything is going to be all right / the blanket monster has fled again / you get to live for another night._

II

End of chapter two. If you feel like it, leave a review. Reviews are motivations for sane people to write things such as chapters in which craziness ensues. May you not make the mistake of considering me as crazy. Hah! See you in three, hopefully. —Mr. Meenor


	3. Chapter 3

Well, that took longer than I expected. My apologies for the late update. Also, the beginning of this chapter may seem out of place, but it isn't. It'll be explained next chapter. (I have these things planned out. Trust me.) Thank you for your patience, your reviews/favorites/alerts, and do enjoy.

III

"What the hell..." His back pressed against the garbage dispenser, arm cut and bleeding. Beside him, his partner rummaged through his pockets, shaking his head. His gashed forehead allowed blood to run down the side of his face. "Do we have anything at all?"

"'Fraid not, Yuu." The gun dropped by his side as he rested his head against the garbage dispenser, cocky smile on his face. He always did that in the stickiest of situations. "We're kind of trapped here, except that ventilation shaft that goes all the way down to the parking lot below. But only one of us can go, at the rate of their walking speed..."

"I told you to not call me that." He opened his chamber and frowned. Only one bullet. If all six of them stood in a straight line, he could take them down in one shot. "Che. Alma, get yourself ready. I'll distract them. You go down the shaft and alert that damned bean sprout Allen of my demise. You've got more skills in shooting than I do, so you're more important. Hurry the hell up."

Alma frowned, but didn't argue. He took the gate off the ventilation shaft, peering down the long drop from the sixth level of the parking garage to the ground floor. He gulped once at the sound of someone giggling, approaching, probably deliberately, slowly. Picking up his empty gun, he shook his head again before a darker smile crossed his features. He swiped the gun from his friend's hand and pushed him down the ventilation shaft. Or, rather, kicked him.

"Wha—!" The long-haired man grimaced as he felt himself topple down the cramped shaft. "Damn it, _Almaaaa!_"

"Don't worry! You'll live! ...Maybe! Run!" Alma shouted before returning his attention to the enemy. He stepped out in front of the group of six, all armed with guns in their hands. The littlest of the group, a young female, smiled at him.

"If you want to live," she said, "tell us everything you know about 'The Exorcists.' We'll gladly take you in our ranks."

"I'd rather die."

"Very well." She smiled. "Tyki?"

A younger man approached, twirling two dual pistols around his fingers before aiming them at the rather short teenager. The gun shook in Alma's hands, grimacing through a smile as he fired the last bullet in the chamber. It connected with one of Tyki's guns, knocking it into the air. The man laughed as he took aim at Alma, grinning. "Sayanora, brat."

The man named Yuu landed at the bottom, groaning after the multiple beatings his head took. The streetlamp greeted him with an orange glow as he crawled out of the shaft. A gunshot emanated from the top of the building. Then another. And another. He grimaced, glaring up at the roof of the parking lot. Someone looked down at him and smiled.

"Damn you, Noah..." He cursed, then dashed onto the Cricket Bridge and headed towards the leader's house. Alma died.

Alma died, and he couldn't do a damn thing about it.

III

Alcohol replenished the empty fridge as Lavi relaxed on the couch, bottle in his hand. Krory left for work at whatever job he had at least an hour ago after Lavi's announcement. As for himself, he had a job, but it depended on whatever that girl Lenalee found between then and eight in the evening. The thought of going outside while the cold temperatures froze everything that breathed made him unhappy. Walking was bad enough, but walking in the cold? His personal nightmare.

"I am such a lazy fucker," he mumbled, taking another swig of his favorite brandy before sitting up, his eye glancing over to the bucket. The water nearly overflowed the thing, yet again. He sighed and picked it up, dumping the water into the sink before putting the bucket back under the leaking pipe. He hated the basement, but the cheap rent made him stay, and he couldn't afford anything else. However, when he gets the paycheck, he could probably get a different place. A better place, one without dripping pipes every ten seconds and a heater that actually gave off heat.

He wrapped himself up with the blanket on the couch and chugged the remainder of his drink, wincing at the slight bitterness that came with the buzz he craved. He tossed the empty bottle onto the floor, not caring for the cracking that followed. The clocked ticked to three-thirty. He had about four and a half hours to kill.

Books filled the void of time, ranging from _A Moveable Feast _by Hemingway to _Dolores Claiborne _by the infamous Stephen King, who grew up in Maine. He remembered walking by his house once, counting how many sharp points the gate had. He tallied one hundred and eight in all, excluding the ones surrounding the back. His eye couldn't see that far.

Cold air filled the room as Krory stepped through the door. "I've always wondered," he said, inspecting his plants, "why we get our own door as opposed to using the front door of the actual building."

"I think this used to be a storage room until we came along." He watched his roommate empty the bucket again.

"I thought you would've left by now. You said you were leaving."

"I am, but there's no point in leaving right now. I still got, what, two hours before I need to leave? Why go outside when I can stay here? Besides, I still need to pack. How's your job?"

"It goes."

"Nothing exciting? What, you bored already?"

"I find my job quite interesting, unlike you. You never find any job exciting." He picked some fresh flowers and put them in the vase on the table, clearing away the dead heads of the older flowers. "What is this job, anyways? Care to explain it?"

"Oh. I thought I told you. I'm going undercover into a gang for six months."

Krory stopped mid-motion in throwing the dead plants into the trashcan, blinking. He resumed his motions three seconds later. "Undercover? As in an undercover agent? Isn't that dangerous?"

"So what if it is? It's fifty-thousand dollars in my pocket, if I succeed."

"Fifty..." Krory paused again, staring at the redhead with uncomprehending eyes. "_You _are going to _make money_? As in, holding down a job for longer than a week? Is that even _possible_?"

"You know, Krorykins, I hate it when you are super-sarcastic. Switch to that depressing side of you again, 'cause it's a lot easier to make fun of you."

He sat up again, the room spinning around him. Part of him wished he never started to drink that early in the afternoon to begin with, but the other part didn't care. He stumbled towards his room, picking up his bag off the floor as he found himself in his room again. The dark blotches told him where his cardboard box bed was and his small collection of books. He grabbed the blanket and shoved it into the biggest pocket, zipping it shut. Next, some books and one CD filled the second pocket. And, in the final pocket, he shoved his wrench, a hammer, his old notebook and a his pen. Nothing else was important enough.

He changed into a new pair of clothes, a warmer pair, and strapped on his jacket. He opened his door and poked his head out.

"Krory, wake me up at seven thirty, okay? 'Night."

He closed the door, crawled in his cardboard box, curled up, and allowed himself to drift into sleep.

He woke up at a quarter to eight.

"Shit, shit, shit!"

He grabbed his bag, slung over his shoulder, and made a mad-dash up the stairs. He paused at the top of the stairs, looking back at Krory, who diligently washed the dishes... with his headphones in. He never heard Lavi's request in the first place.

"I'm leaving," he said loudly, hoping his roommate heard that much.

"Yeah, and I'll be here when you come crawling back with empty wine bottles in your hands," Krory joked.

Ignoring his roommate, Lavi stepped outside. The clear sky twinkled with stars as he tightened the scarf around his neck, adjusting the eye patch into a more comfortable position. He shoved his hands into his pockets in an attempt to keep them warm. He hated winter for the cold, but loved snow, which caused problems. If he could just get the snow without the cold, everything would be perfect.

He shivered against the wind and pressed on, remembering his way to the bagel shop. His forehead throbbed with pain with the first signs of a hangover. He wandered onwards until he spotted Lenalee, waiting by the shop while tapping her foot. She wore a large, puffy jacket that hid most of her figure, and a long skirt. She looked up when he approached and smiled. "It's about time. I thought you froze to death on the way over."

"I'm getting pretty close," he admitted.

"Same here. Luckily for us, though, we won't have to do much searching." She pulled out a small slip of paper. "I got directions from several of the street junkies. The leader doesn't live too far from here, which is good." She read it over once and nodded. "Are you ready? Do you remember everything I told you? Stay in character as much as you can."

"I'm ready, I remember, and I will. Jeez, you're so demanding."

She whacked his shoulder with her elbow before leading the way. "And you're so lazy. C'mon."

She led the way, walking towards the odd bridge that looked over the Kenduskeag Stream, a stream that connected to the main river. People went smelt-fishing in the spring time off of its banks. Between the two bridges was park on both sides of the one-way street. In the spring, the maple trees bloomed red leaves and the bushes sprouted a lavish array of colors. In the winter, the snow and leafless trees made the park look desolate, almost deserving of pity for such a pathetic excuse of a "beautiful" place. Further down the road was a few more old buildings (one used for a democratic campaign office, and, ironically, the republican campaign office was directly across from it) before it turned into a different street.

He knew that street well. It held the largest library in the state.

"Where are we going?" he asked as they past the large, concrete building.

"Where they are. Where the leader is, more specifically, remember?"

They passed the federal building, a mini-mall, and a retirement home before the heart of downtown Bangor ended abruptly. Past the retirement home was practically nothing, just another bridge overlooking the Kenduskeag Stream. He frowned, hands shivering inside his pockets.

"How much farther?"

"God, you whine a lot." She stopped and pointed up at the hill not far from where the stream resided. Trees tilted oddly as the steep, leaf-covered hill loomed before them, houses sporadically spaced on it. "That house, right there. The leader apparently owns it. Kind of rich for a gang leader."

"Are you _sure _that's the right place?" he asked when they reached the foot of the hill. The road looked steep, even for a car to drive up. "It looks creepy."

She only nodded, fed up with his persistent questioning. Black ice made for difficult traveling (for Lavi, at least—Lenalee appeared to just skate over the patches) up, but they made it. The house looked wrecked at a closer inspection. One of the windows on the two-story building had a patch of duck tape to cover a hole. The porch, or what looked to be a porch, had a broken railing. He noticed tiles of the roof scattered on the tiny lawn, poking up from the many inches of snow. The fence, however, looked new and polished with white paint, but the sign—"DO NOT TRESPASS"—could not have said more.

"Uh, Lenalee?" Lavi said as she jumped over the fence. "Maybe we should think this over..."

"Don't be a wuss. Come on!"

He frowned, glancing over his shoulder out of nervousness, before jumping over the fence himself. She waited for him to catch up to her at the door, where a doorbell had a small piece of paper saying, "Broken. Knock, please." She gave him a glance, and he returned it before she knocked on the door.

"Ready?" she whispered.

"Doesn't matter now."

Someone behind the door yelled something, retaliated with another yell. Then loud footsteps.

Lavi gulped.

The door opened.

A chubby man stood before them, with a crooked nose and freckles all over his face. His hair, tied back, still looked messy. His clothes were a mess. It seemed as if he just got out of bed. He tilted his head and inspected the two closely before frowning.

"Uh, Allen... We've got two people here..."

"What? Hold on, I'll be there in a moment."

A crash, then a bang, and a yell.

"Fucking bean sprout! You cheated again!"

"That's what you get for playing poker with me. Okay, I'm coming."

Someone appeared from behind the chubby man, someone with a shorter stature and screaming white hair. A red scar splashed on his forehead in the shape of a red star, leading down over his eye and briefly touching his cheek. His grayish-blue eyes made goosebumps shudder down Lavi's spine as he glanced from Lenalee to the redhead.

"Chaoji," he said after an extended moment of silence, "make some tea, please."

"But what if they're spies?" he whispered worriedly into the boy's ear.

"We'll find that out soon enough. Come inside, you two—you look frozen to the bone."

Lenalee winked at Lavi before hurrying into the house. The short ceilings made the house seem French as their jackets were placed onto a coat rack. The boy smiled.

"My name is Allen Walker, owner of this house. I do apologize for the mess in here. I've been meaning to clean, but I'm a naturally-messy person. And who, may I ask, are you two? I've never seen you around this block before. Are you new neighbors?"

"My name is Lenalee Lee," Lenalee answered, looking shy and nervous. Lavi wondered if that was part of her character or if she was genuinely scared. "This is my friend, Lavi, and we—"

Allen raised a hand to silence her as he took her bag, opening it. She blinked, confused, as he rummaged through her contents—a pair of clothes, a sleeping bag, one notebook, a twenty dollar bill, an old receipt, and a few other items. He looked from her to the bag again, then looked at Lavi, who just stared back with solemn eyes. He closed the bag and handed her the bag again before smiling. "I know now," he said. "You don't need to tell me. You're homeless, aren't you?"

Her eyes widened. "Ho-How did you know that?"

"No one goes camping in the winter, and you're carrying items needed for staying in the outdoors," he explained. "You probably went from door to door, looking for a place to stay for the night. I heard the teenage shelter is at full capacity right now. Plus, that bag looks old, your jacket isn't made for your gender, your face looks dirty and your skirt!" He shook his head. "That skirt has tears in it. As for him," he glanced at Lavi, "he looks dirty, too. And his bag is stuffed to the brim. Not to mention that scarf of his with all the tears in it. In addition, he reeks of alcohol, yet seems sober. He probably collects bottles for money. And, finally, you both look freezing, so I know you didn't get here by car. You walked."

The chubby man named Chaoji poked his head out from behind a wall. "The tea's ready."

Allen nodded. "Come along, you two. Put your bags beside the others, if you want."

Lavi took Lenalee's bag and put them beside the other bags, all stained with dirt. He walked down the narrow hall and what appeared to be the kitchen. A long table with seven chairs sat in the center. The counter had virtually no dishes as they all soaked in warm water, Chaoji washing the dishes as Allen poured tea. No one else was in the room, but it seemed obvious that more than two people lived in the house. Two glasses were placed on the table.

"Please, have a seat."

She sat down and Lavi followed, staring at the tea suspiciously. He didn't know whether to trust this "Allen" character yet, or if the politeness he had was just an act. Lenalee, however, had no problem with drinking the tea. Allen sat across from them, smiling still.

"Where are the two of you from?"

She took another sip before putting the glass down. "We're both from around here. I've been homeless for about a month now, and Lavi... I'm not sure. We just sort of met, and he doesn't talk much, but he's reliable and trustworthy, in my opinion."

"Only a month, huh? Must be shocking."

She nodded. "My mother, she got this new boyfriend, and... I mean, we never really talked much. We just respected each other and our space. But I'm still considered a mistake. I was never supposed to happen, I think... she never told me who my father was..." Her eyes brimmed with tears. "I don't know what I even did..."

He raised an eyebrow and looked over his shoulder. "Isn't that why Miranda got kicked out? New boyfriend drama?"

Chaoji nodded. "That, and she got fired for the one hundredth time."

_Ouch._ Lavi tried not to laugh.

"I really am sorry for you," he said before eying Lavi. "And you?"

He said nothing.

"He doesn't talk much, as I said."

Allen frowned. "Lavi, was it? You give off an air I don't like, but that's because of that eye of yours. It looks so judgmental. Listen, I'm not going to hurt you or make fun of you. You can tell me what it is that's upsetting you. You look upset. It's okay, you can tell me."

He stared at the boy, almost as if he didn't understand. "I..."

III

"_Momma, what's 'school'?"_

_She didn't look up from her paper as she swallowed another tablet. She always swallowed tablets with her coffee. Momma told him those were her vitamins because she didn't eat enough. "School, you ask? It's a place where you learn to do things with other people. You're not old enough for school yet, honey, but you will be next year."_

"_Did Momma ever go to school?"_

"_Momma was raised a bit differently than you were, kiddo," she said. "Momma isn't smart. She's a waste of space and doesn't do anything worth mentioning. Here, have some chocolate for breakfast, but not the whole thing."_

_He took the chocolate out of her hands. "If Momma's a 'waste of space,' am I a 'waste of space,' too?"_

_She said nothing at first as she put the paper down onto the table. Her eyes stared vacantly as she took an additional tablet—something she's never done before. Then, she rose from her seat and squatted down to eye-level with him, ruffling his mess of red hair. "We'll see, kiddo," she said. "We'll see."_

III

"I... Why do you care?" Something inside him peaked. The bastard had the nerve to ask such a personal question when he barely knew him. "Why should I tell you? Huh? Why should I?"

His hands grabbed around something warm, feeling his fingers tighten around the tubular object. It felt nice, flexing out the muscles of his cold hands. They felt numb with power. Someone grabbed him from behind, yelling something dull in the background, but his ears couldn't quite pick it up. He felt himself torn away from his new play thing, realizing then that it was the boy named Allen Walker, gasping against the wall.

"Lavi, what the hell! Calm yourself down!" Lenalee shoved him into a chair. "What were you thinking? I told you not to attack people!" Underlying her act, she looked frightened. He could see it in her eyes as she turned away from him, assisting Allen. "I should have said before," she said, "that he's diagnosed with severe mental disabilities. That's why he doesn't talk so much."

"Wow," he breathed. "I've never been caught so off-guard like that in my life." He smiled up at the redhead. "You're a strong one, aren't you?"

He said nothing.

"You two remind me of 'The Beauty and the Beast,'" he continued. Chaoji stood in the corner of the kitchen, eyes wide as his leader only smiled. "But, really, Lavi, I won't hurt you. Promise. I assume you got thrown out because you're the way you are."

Lenalee nodded. "Yes."

"I see..."

"Allen," Chaoji said.

"We have an extra bed for these two, do we not?"

A troubled look flashed on his face before he nodded. "Y-yes, we do. Should I prepare it for them?"

"Please do."

Chaoji nodded again as he eyed the strangers cautiously, hurrying out of the room and thudding up a set of stairs. Allen rubbed his neck with a gloved hand, wincing a little as he brushed over the forming bruises. The silence loomed for a moment longer before he said, "You may stay the night here, because I am convinced neither of you are a part of the 'Noah.' Please, make yourselves comfortable."

"The... what?"

He shook his head. "It's not a story to be told now, Lenalee. The hour is late, and most of us are exhausted. I will introduce you to everyone else in the house later, and there is an offer I'd like to give you. But for now, sleep. Especially you," he pointed to Lavi. "You need to calm down. That anger of yours is still boiling."

Anger. Noun. 1.) A strong emotion; a feeling that is oriented toward some real or supposed grievance.

"I'm not angry."

Was he?

"Right," Allen replied disbelievingly. "I'll show you to your room. We only really have one guest bedroom, I am sorry to say."

He rose from his chair and led the way of the stairs. They didn't creak the same way the stairs back in the basement creaked. Lavi expected all stairs to creak, but apparently they didn't. The second floor looked messier than the first, with wrappers and—what, toys? How strange—as Allen opened a door. The guest room looked virtually untouched and clean, with only one bed and a few other pieces of furniture. Much to his dismay, not one piece of furniture was a bookcase.

"There is only one bed, so you two can argue about that." He chuckled a little. "A lock is on the door, if you want. Oh! Hold on a second..."

He left briefly, letting the two stand alone for a moment. She glared at Lavi.

"What the hell were you thinking?" she whispered. "You could've killed him, or worse yet, lost his trust in us! We can't afford that! But, aside from that, you were great in-character. It even scared me, and it takes a lot to do that."

"I try," he said.

Allen came back with a pile of clothes in his hands. "Here," he said, handing each a set of clothing. "I figured you want out of those grungy clothes, so I asked Miranda and she had spare night clothes. They are clean, before you ask. I made sure of that." He smiled. "If you need anything, my room is down the hall and on the right. Just knock before you enter, okay?"

"Thank you," Lenalee said, bowing. "I am truly grateful."

"Not a problem," he said. "See you in the morning."

He closed the door behind him as Lavi stared at the clothes in his hands. The patterns on the clothes were numbered sheep jumping over fences. It was so cute it made him sick. Lenalee had ducks on her own, which she seemed pleased about. "Well," she said, "good night, Lavi."

"Wait, where am I going to sleep?" He turned to see her already changed into the duck pajamas. It was so cute it made him want to strangle Allen.

"On the floor, or in the bed with me. Don't take that in a sexual context."

"Why would I? You're not my type." He changed quickly as she crawled into bed. "I'll sleep on the floor, then. I have a blanket mon—I have a blanket in my bag. I can just go get it."

He headed towards the door.

"Lavi?"

He stopped. "Yeah?"

"Thanks for helping me out. With this, I mean."

He grinned. "What are friends for? Go to sleep."

Friend. Noun. 1.) A person you know well and regard with affection and trust. 2.) An associate who provides cooperation or assistance.

He shrugged as he walked down the stairs, grabbing his bag.

He guessed she was a "friend," then.

III

End of chapter 3. I hoped you all enjoyed it. Leave a review, if you want, because I do read them, even if I never respond. I respond in my head. It's not my fault you all don't have telepathy. (It's a joke. Hah.) I hope to see you in chapter 4. —Mr. Meenor


End file.
